Chapter 22 Sloane #2
The conference room is a fishbowl under the harsh fluorescent lights, its glass walls offering no privacy from the curious gazes of passing colleagues.
I've chosen the chair farthest from the door, my back to the windows that overlook the practice rink, my laptop positioned like a barrier between myself and the empty chair across from me.
When Garrett enters, he brings his usual easy confidence, the kind of relaxed energy that comes from being comfortable in his own skin.
His hair is still damp from the post-practice shower, and he's wearing that navy pullover that makes his eyes look more green than brown.
Yesterday, the sight of him would have made my pulse skip and my carefully professional mask slip into something softer, more genuine.
Today, it makes my chest tighten with panic.
"Hey," he says, closing the door behind him with the quiet consideration he always shows for my corporate sensibilities. "How's the playoff media timeline looking?"
"Fine." The word comes out clipped, sharper than I intended. I don't look up from my screen, where I've pulled up the content calendar that I've already memorized. "Player availability is confirmed through next Friday. The feature interviews are scheduled with Torres, Davidson, and Williams."
He settles into the chair across from me, and I can feel his gaze like a physical weight. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the small frown that creases his forehead—confusion at my tone, at the distance I've suddenly inserted between us.
"And the community outreach coverage?" he asks, his voice carrying a note of uncertainty that makes my heart clench.
"Handled." I click through to another spreadsheet, anything to keep my eyes off his face. "The youth clinic footage will be edited and distributed by Thursday. Social media rollout begins Friday morning."
The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken questions.
I can see him in my peripheral vision, leaning forward slightly, trying to catch my eye.
Before, he would have made some gentle joke about my corporate speak, would have found a way to make me smile, to bridge the professional distance with personal warmth.
Before, I would have let him.
"Sloane." His voice is quieter now, tinged with concern. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine." I pull up another document, fingers moving across the keyboard with mechanical precision. "Did you need anything else regarding media coverage?"
I finally glance at him, and the hurt that flickers across his expression is like a knife between my ribs, but I force myself to maintain the professional facade. I can't afford to be soft right now. Can't afford to let him see how terrified I am, how the walls are closing in around us.
He opens his mouth to say something—probably to call out my obvious deflection, to push past the corporate politeness to the truth—when movement in the hallway catches my attention.
Easton.
My brother's massive frame fills the corridor beyond the glass walls, moving with the purposeful stride of someone heading to a specific destination.
But as he passes our conference room, his steps slow.
His head turns. And when his eyes find us through the transparent barrier, everything inside me turns to ice.
The look on Easton's face isn't casual curiosity or brotherly concern.
It's laser-focused suspicion, the kind of sharp attention he usually reserves for reading shooters in the slot.
His gaze moves from Garrett to me and back again, cataloguing every detail: the distance between us, the careful positioning of our bodies, the way I'm studiously avoiding eye contact with the man across from me.
But most damning of all is what he sees in my face. Despite my best efforts to remain composed, I know my expression betrays me to my brother. The guilt, the fear, the desperate attempt to appear professional while my world crumbles around me—it's all there for him to read.
Easton's eyes narrow slightly, and I watch the pieces click into place behind his sharp green gaze. The blind item. My emotional reaction at the game the other day when I thought Garrett was injured. The way I've been distracted lately, the late nights I've attributed to work stress.
He knows.
The moment stretches like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap. Then Easton's jaw tightens, his expression shifting from suspicion to something harder, more resolute. Without a word, he continues down the hallway, leaving me staring after him with my heart hammering against my ribs.
"What was that about?" Garrett's voice cuts through my paralysis, confusion evident in every syllable. "Easton looked like he wanted to put me through the glass."
I force my attention back to my laptop screen, though the words blur together in meaningless rows. "He's protective. You know how brothers are."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but it's easier than the truth. Easier than explaining that my brother just confirmed his worst suspicions about us, that the secret we've been so careful to protect has been blown wide open by my inability to hide my feelings.
"Sloane." Garrett's voice is patient but persistent, the tone he uses when he knows I'm not telling him everything. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
"There's nothing to talk about." I close my laptop with deliberate finality, the sharp snap echoing in the glass-walled room. "I think we've covered everything we need to for the media schedule."
The confusion in his eyes deepens, mixed now with hurt that he's trying to hide.
But something in my demeanor must convince him that pushing will only make things worse. He nods slowly, gathering his things with the careful movements of someone trying not to spook a wounded animal.
"Alright," he says quietly. "I'll see you later."
He pauses at the door, hand on the handle, and I can feel him willing me to look at him. To give him some sign that this distance is temporary, that the woman who laughed with him in his kitchen is still here somewhere beneath the corporate armor.
I don't look up. Can't afford to let him see the cracks in my resolve.
It's only when the door shuts quietly behind him that I close my eyes for a moment, letting the pain wash over me in one silent, stolen breath before I force myself to get back to work.
Back in my office, my computer chimes with an incoming email, and my heart nearly stops. The preview appears in the corner of my screen, innocuous black text that shouldn't carry the weight of an execution order.
Subject: INVITATION: The 15th Annual Minnesota Mammoths Charity Gala
I stare at the notification, and something cold and terrible unfurls in my chest. The gala.
Of course. The most high-profile event of the season, where every major sponsor, every board member, every influential figure in the organization will be watching.
Where Garrett and I will be forced into the same elegant ballroom, surrounded by cameras and corporate scrutiny.
My finger hovers over the email, trembling.
When I open it, the formal invitation text swims before my eyes, but all I can see is the date.
Three days from now. Seventy-two hours until I'm trapped in a glittering minefield where my brother will be cataloguing my every glance, every gesture, every second of proximity between Garrett and me.